


Nothing Crushes Us

by jupiterss



Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe - No IT (King), Angst, Bill has PTSD, Georgie lost his arm but he's alive, It's angst, M/M, Richie is uh, also heads up there are gonna be minor religious themes, and gay and really fluffy but mostly angst, and is super guilty, annnngst, bill's parent's SUCK, bridge to terabithia au, he's quirky, idk yet, let's put it that way, mature rating bc shit gets dark also there might be handjobs, richie's parents are cool, they're 18 yall, they're neighbours!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-07
Updated: 2018-07-07
Packaged: 2019-06-06 15:56:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15198224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jupiterss/pseuds/jupiterss
Summary: “Isn't this a little childish?” Bill asks, wringing his hands nervously as he looks up at Richie, whose entire weight is being supported by a rather un-sturdy looking branch, “not to m-mention, dangerous.”Richie hoists himself up, kicking his feet in the air for a second before he finds his footing again.“Oh, definitely,” he replies, swinging one leg up so he's sitting. He smiles down at Bill, hair falling in front of his face and cheeks gone pink from the effort. “You coming up?”or, the bichie Bridge to Terabithia au that i'm writing because i hate myself





	Nothing Crushes Us

_prologue._

 

He's thirteen years old when it happens.

They're sitting out on the pavement, at the end of the driveway. The street has been relatively quiet all day, barely any cars passing by – not unusual for that part of the suburbs. The air is warm, but not unpleasant, and the trees lining the nature strip gratefully provide shade from the afternoon sun. Their bikes are lying beside them, discarded after a midday expedition to the ice-cream parlour in town that left them both sated and tired out. The larger is much older, visibly worn and well-loved from years of use, the leather seat faded and ripped, while the smaller is less so, still shiny and unbroken, newly freed of the training wheels that had been needed up until a few days prior, when it's rider had decided he was _far too old for things like that, thank you very much._

Georgie's tongue is poking out the side of his mouth, concentration etched on his face as he leans forward and adds more blue to the picture he's been working on for the past twenty three minutes. Multicoloured chalk dust covers his hands, his knees, his shirt, his cheeks. There's a bandaid on his shin from when he tripped the day before, and it's patterned with yellow dinosaurs, because he's always believed wholeheartedly that they work better than regular beige ones, and how could anyone ever argue with that? He sits back and tilts his head, tugging at his bottom lip with his teeth, looking over his masterpiece and contemplating his next move. He drops the blue stick of chalk, and his hand hovers over the pile for a moment, before he picks up the green and goes back to work. He leans forward, practically folding himself in half to get to the spot that's just out of reach, and he strains himself for a bit before just shifting onto his knees, bracing himself with his free hand.

Bill watches with quiet amusement, at how enamoured the younger is with his creation. It's really not much more than a scribble – he can make out a couple of stick figures, one taller and one shorter, but without any other identifying features, and what is either a very wonky tree or an oddly statured giraffe, but maybe that's just the angle he's seeing it from – and his brother seems intent on just fitting in every colour that he owns. He twirls his own piece of white chalk in his fingers, his other hand holding up his head as he leans his elbow on his knee. He hasn't done much since they've been out there, only writing his and Georgie's name in cursive, one on top of the other, and then simply sitting in silent observation. It's nice, he thinks, with the blue sky and spring green grass and white fence beside them, paint chipping slightly, no sounds other than the scraping of chalk on the cement, his brother's absentminded humming, and the occasional chirp from a bird in the trees somewhere above them. He has a lazy smile on his face, heart filled with pure content-ness. Their parents are inside; their mother occasionally checking on them from the kitchen window above the sink, dishtowel tossed over her shoulder and suds coming halfway up her forearms, their father probably sat at the dining table, shaking his head and frowning slightly as he sorts through bills and payments that his son's don't know enough about yet to worry.

He feels like he's living in a polaroid; a perfect snapshot of a perfect moment. Everything is calm.

It doesn't last.

They hear the car before they see it, tires screeching and engine revving. It's sudden, and almost deafening. The vehicle rounds the corner too fast and too wide. It approaches quickly, swerving wildly on the road. Bill sees Georgie's head snap up towards it, chalk still clutched in his hand, a sharp inhale through parted lips, tinted blue from the bubblegum flavoured ice-cream they had earlier. He stands, and tries to move, to think, to do anything, but there's not enough time.

He remembers being thrown backwards, and all the air being forced out of his lungs, and feeling like his skull had cracked against the pavement.

He remembers the screaming, though he can't recall who it was.  
He remembers the sirens, sounding all too distant behind the ringing in his ears, but not much else.

 

He doesn't wake up for three days, and when he does, it's in a bed that isn't his, in a white room with that smells like antiseptic, with tubes attached to his arm and a cannula tickling his nose. The fluorescent lights hanging from the ceiling are harsh against bleary eyes. His chest hurts – hell, his whole body hurts – and everything feels hazy, and when he tries to move his arm he's met with a sharp pain shooting up his shoulder, but it helps ground him, if only a little. A doctor in a white coat walks in with a clipboard in her hand and tells him he's okay, that he'll be okay. And with a barely there voice that he struggles to get out, he asks where his parents are, and the doctor gives him a sympathetic smile and tells him that they're with George.

The name would have sent him into a panic if he weren't so exhausted. His heart is in his throat when he asks if his brother's alright.

She hesitates, for a moment, then nods, – _Yes, he's alright, Bill –_ and Bill knows that it's not the full answer, there's something else, but his head is spinning, and his eyelids feel like lead, and his mouth is dry, and his left ear feels like it's full of water, so he doesn't ask more. She tells him to let her know if he needs anything. He stops fighting to stay awake.

 

The same doctor stands next to his bed a few days later, once some of the pain subsides and he's able to sit up on his own, and gives him the basic information. He tries to listen, really, but he only picks up parts. The drunken driver died on impact when the car hit the tree. Bill got away with a fairly major concussion and a dislocated shoulder and a few broken ribs. Georgie had his right arm pinned under a tire, nearly tearing it from his body. They amputated below the shoulder.

He's alive. They're both alive.

When he tries to speak now, it's like the words catch on his tongue, breaking up into stuttered fragments, making him sound like a scratched record. He doesn't know how to stop it. The doctor says that it's just a side-effect, and it will go away in time. Probably.

Nurses seem to come in and out constantly, asking him questions and shining lights in his eyes and changing the bandages on his head and swapping out IV drips for different IV drips, and they try to let him know the details and reasons behind what they're doing but he can't bring himself to really listen at all, it's all just long medical words he doesn't know, spoken in soft pitied tones that he doesn't find comfort in. One nurse gives him a few books to read, but they sit untouched on the table beside his bed. They bring him bland food on grey plastic trays that he never finishes.

His dad stops by his room every now and then, but only for brief periods, and he doesn't say much while he's there. His mother visits him once.

He doesn't see Georgie for a week and a half.

The doctor – the first one – wakes him up and tells him he's going home. The tubes are all gone, and he's given clean clothes, allowing him freedom from the flimsy hospital gowns. He's escorted down a hallway, with slow, uneasy steps, to a different room, and when he gets there his parents look at him, and maybe they even smile a bit, but they don't get up to hug him.

And then there's his brother – but it's not all of him.

 

When they get home, he tries to get things back to normal. He does extra chores around the house without being asked, to help make things easier, but his parents either don't realise or they just don't mention it. They still eat together at the dining room table, but it's spent in silence. Bill tries to start conversation, sometimes, but it's hard, and his stutter isn't getting better like the doctor's said it would, and even when he can get a full sentence out it's met with quiet nods or hums and not real responses. He gives up, eventually. No point in wasting his breath, he figures.

Georgie is there – but he's not really there.

It's like part of him disappeared when they took his arm, left behind in that hospital bed along with the used bandages and antiseptic. He barely laughs now, and when he smiles it's with closed lips and Bill wants more than anything to see the gap between his front teeth again, to see his cheeks flood with pink and just _hear_ him. Because Georgie used to be colour when everything else was monotone but now he blends in with the white walls and the grey carpets and Bill wonders how the hell you can _miss_ someone when they're sitting right next to you.

His chest still hurts, even a month later, and he hasn't been allowed to ride his bike or even really go outside, and every time he takes a shower he spends most of it looking down at all the bruising around his ribs and running his fingers over his skin and pressing down on the parts where the purplish-blueish-yellow is darkest until there's tears in his eyes and it hurts too much to take. He can handle crying when there's enough water dripping down his face for the tears to masquerade behind, when he doesn't feel like he's taking his parent's attention away from his brother, when he's not worried about his father telling him to _be a man._

He can cry there, because it doesn't make him feel as selfish.

 

A week before school is supposed to start again there's boxes in the living room and a moving truck in the driveway and maybe his parent's intended to tell him and they just forgot, or maybe they just didn't bother because it's not like anything really mattered anymore. By this point his mother couldn't even look out the kitchen window and his father barely blinked and Bill sometimes feels like he's the only person in that house that's still alive that's still breathing that still _feels thinks cries._

So he doesn't ask why, and he doesn't object. He packs up his books and his action figures and his clothes and he helps one of the moving guys lift the coffee table into the back of the truck.

And when they leave, he looks out the back window of the car, and prays that wherever they're headed, it's better.

**Author's Note:**

> wish me luck lmao this is gonna drain the life out of me
> 
> please comment also hmu @ kinghanscom.tumblr.com


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